


Mutually Absurd Drunkenness

by StarlightOnInk



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, M/M, RusAme, drunk!russia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 07:26:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4616532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightOnInk/pseuds/StarlightOnInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America does not show up on time for their date. Russia drowns the disappointment in alcohol. This leaves America with a drunk and uncooperative Russia to drag home. Moods changes like a traffic light, but America is determined to go with it. RusAme oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutually Absurd Drunkenness

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title: Waiting for Sobriety.
> 
> This was sort of a chance to explore my drunk!Russia headcanons, particularly concerning the stages he goes through, and how it affects the way he thinks and sees things.

“Come here- dammit, dude, stop wandering!” Alfred gave a great tug, trying to guide his charge.

 

A very tipsy Russia merely tried yet again to free himself, quite intent on forging his own path. “But Fedya, we are not finished!” he said through a string of giggles.

 

America allowed himself three long deep breaths, trying to summon some reservoir of patience. He had arrived markedly late to their date, and arrived to find Ivan indulging in some spirits. That in itself was alright- Russia was able to drink quite a bit of alcohol before feeling any effects.

 

“How much did you drink?” America asked, holding Ivan’s arm in a vice like grip across his shoulders, the better to anchor him to his side. _Just a bit farther…_

 

Ivan paused in his struggles, granting Alfred a brief reprieve. “Four…” Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “…ty two.” Ah, that sounded a bit more accurate. “Forty two. Four. Two. I think. You interrupted.”

 

Alfred grimaced, leading them around a corner and down a side street. His apartment was just a minute away now. “I’m _sorry_ , Evie, really, I am,” he said in earnest. He had only said it eighteen times, since apparently tonight was the night for keeping count…

 

They were supposed to meet up for a date at 6 o'clock, which, for Russia, turned to 6:15, 6:30, then 7, waiting for America to show up. Alfred had gotten caught up in a meeting that was not even supposed to take place, and was unable to call or text him. He had made a point of dropping hints at his boss that he had somewhere to be for personal matters, but, alas, for better or worse, the needs of the America trumped those of Alfred F. Jones.

 

Ultimately, some dark recess of Ivan’s mind had determined that the American had stood him up, and so sought to stifle the pain with booze. He explained as much to Alfred, albeit a little less eloquently.

 

“How could you think I’d stand you up? We’ve been seeing each other for ages- I wouldn’t just ditch like that.” Somewhere through the alcohol-induced fog, Russia sent him a searching look before shaking his head.

 

“You could have…found another? Realized you could…do better…”

 

It was Alfred’s turn to shake his head. “I forgot what a pessimist you are sometimes.”

 

Ivan let out a sigh. “I used to be optimist,” he admitted, the alcohol causing him to drop his articles and his accent to thicken. “But you learn over the years. Things change, people change, you change…” Alfred did not know who “you” meant- himself or Ivan. All he did know was that they were treading dangerously close to the sadder effects drinking has on the Russian. Times like this made him want to wrap the guy in a thick warm blanket and cuddle him by the fire.

 

“Where are we?” Ivan asked suddenly in a tone of wonderment.

 

Alfred blinked. “We’re a minute from my house, dude. We’ve walked this way like eighty times.”

 

Ivan shook his head stubbornly, nearly careening off balance in the process. “No, no, I do not remember this place. We should be exploring more.”

 

“Ivan, I live _right_ there!” Alfred cried, freeing one hand to point at where his house stood now visible in the darkened evening.

 

Ivan merely shook his head all the more vehemently, feeling the world spin horribly beneath him, the ground flying up to meet him. Alfred’s grip on him tightened, and he looped his arm around his waist in response. “Mmmmm, my hero,” Russia said with a rumbling laugh, sending waves of heat through Alfred’s cheeks.

 

“Let’s…just keep going,” he muttered.

 

The next half minute passed in relative silence, broken only by the sounds of their labored breathing and Russia’s soft humming, “ _Polyushko polye, polyushko shiroka polye…_ ” Ah, so he was still at the Singing portion of his drunkenness. Russia had different phases of being drunk, ranging from Singing and Folk Dance, Laughing, Sullen, Depressed, and Angry. The latter had become rarer and rarer ever since they started going out, thankfully. They sometimes shifted so suddenly and seamlessly, that often more than one phase seemed to coexist simultaneously. He had been in the Singing and Folk Dance segment when America arrived at their designated meeting place.

 

Just as they were stepping up to the door to the apartment, Russia piped up, “Fedya- Fedya, you have not taken me to Disney World in ages.”

 

“What!?” America asked, thrown by the sudden outburst.

 

“You said you would. Fedya- you said, you told me even if my boss could not go, I was welcome to, you said it would be alright. I have not been there in ages, but you said you would take me,” Russia informed him with a pout that looked remarkably charming on his chiseled face.

 

“I…I’ll get right on it,” America said, struggling to get them over the threshold. _He remembers that but he doesn’t recognize the street…_ The door shut behind them, cutting off the stream of cool nighttime air leaking in. After much awkward clambering and more than a few choice swear words, they arrived at last at their final destination.

 

Alfred let Ivan fall unceremoniously onto the bed, where he quickly nuzzled his face into the thick down comforter. “Mmm, come join me, Fedya,” he insisted, slapping the spot beside him sloppily.

 

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” After a hurried change of clothes, America slid himself in beside Russia, whose arm snaked out to wrap securely around Alfred’s waist. Immediately, America felt his eyelids begin to droop. It had begun drizzling lightly outside, and the gentle rhythmic tapping of the raindrops against the window was lulling him into a nice comfortable slumber…

 

“Fedya,” Russia said, poking him none to gently in the side. America groaned. “Fedya, would you like to colonize Mars together?”

 

Aah, right, the other phase of Russia’s drunken state. Talkative.

 

“That sounds good, buddy, America mumbled into his pillow, eyes clamped determinedly shut.

 

Russia beamed. For one brief moment, America thought that was all. Then, "I would like that very much.”

 

“Me too, babe,” he responded, hoping Russia might be sober enough to register some of the exhaustion in his voice. “Why don’t we sleep now, huh, babe? We’ll plan something nice in the morning.”

 

Russia shook his head, platinum locks sliding gracefully across the pillow case. He gave another musical laugh. “Nyet, I am too sleepy for that.”

 

“That…doesn’t make sense…”

 

Another rumble of a laugh.

 

“Fedya?”

 

“…yes, Vanya?” America asked thickly.

 

“…you really did not mean to stand me up?”

 

Something warm blossomed in Alfred’s chest at the faint touch of insecurity lacing Russia’s words, and he slid a hand up to thread his fingers gently through those thick pale locks. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he promised. “Now try and sleep. You’ll feel better with some sleep.”

 

He had a faint memory of sharing a goodnight kiss before the heavy blackness that had plagued him all throughout their trek finally overwhelmed him, and he was deep in a world of dreams.

 

0o0o0

 

Russia woke to a pounding headache and an amused America who had a glass of orange juice and pain killers at the ready. He took them groggily, the faint light leaking past the drawn curtains enough to stab painfully at his eyes.

 

“Morning, sunshine,” America greeted cheeky.

 

Russia groaned. “Please stop yelling,” he implored. “What happened last night?” he added.

 

America frowned. “Well, I got stuck at some boring-ass meeting, didn’t get to call, and so you thought I stood you up after we’ve gone out for how long now? Then you got plastered, and by the time I got to you, were treating everyone to a one man reenactment that crazy dancing part of The Nutcracker. It’s already on Youtube, actually, if you want a more vivid reminder.”

 

Ivan’s violet eyes drooped down to his lap as his cheeks flooded with heat. “No, no, I will take your word for it…”

 

“Suit yourself, but it already has a million hits, and I’m pretty sure half of those are me.”

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> I love the scenarios involving Alfred being the one to completely fail at holding his liquor at parties, but I thought it might be fun to see Ivan in that situation.


End file.
